The Flesh Menagerie
by Natasha-Von-Lecter
Summary: After the Triumph of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, Severus Snape keeps a very interesting collection. His latest acquisition is...different. Warnings: Torture/violence


If there was one thing that they all could agree on it was surely this: Lysander Nightingale made an excellent doorman. He was tall, handsome, sturdy, and unfailingly silent. On the outside at least. Inside, he was no longer occupied by thoughts, but instead a single, piercing sound: His own screams echoing off the interior walls of his mind. His arms were perpetually outstretched to take the coat of the latest visitor to Snape Hall (which was indeed only called so ironically, in hushed tones, by certain Death Eaters who kept more grand accommodations). The fact that Nightingale never moved, except once a day when he drew a long, gasping breath at precisely midnight meant that he had, over the last year, developed quite an impressive coating of dust. But unfortunately, Severus Snape did not employ any active help and could not be bothered with such trifles himself.

If there was another point on which everyone could it agree, it was that Severus Snape was as mad as a March hare. Useful, canny, possessed of the most wonderful toys, but barmy nonetheless. It wasn't the sadistic way in which he had collected the former thorns in his side and fixed them in living death that convinced his acquaintances of his madness, though it didn't add any points to the defense of his sanity. It wasn't even his obsession with the perceived injustices of his past during a time of unparalleled revelry among the triumphant Death Eaters. It was the plain and simple fact that Snape never seemed to enjoy the fruits of his labor. A dozen perfectly preserved, completely compliant bodies in all shapes and sizes, and he never laid a finger on a one of them. His friends (acquaintances really; Snape didn't have friends) knew that his little menagerie was always on offer for whatever sort of perverse satisfaction they wished to pursue, but no one had ever seen him so much as stroke his fingers over the living statues. The suppositions on just why he abstained ranged from the plausible (he's asexual?) to the ridiculous (he's impotent and hasn't heard there are potions for that?) to the downright ludicrous (perhaps he has a girlfriend who doesn't approve?). In the end, they all agreed on a simple verdict: Severus Snape was mad.

They were half-right.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I am well aware of the fact that they think I'm out of my mind. Luckily, I couldn't give a toss about their collective opinions. And they're wrong, anyhow. Well, half-wrong. They think I don't enjoy my little collection, and strictly speaking I don't enjoy them physically. How could I? They might be content to rut with those pathetic specimens, but I won't debase myself like that. All the persons (persons? Are they still persons?) in my menagerie were chosen for a very specific reason: I want to see them suffer.

I hated teaching, full stop. But there were certain students, such mind-numbingly dull, accident-prone, inordinately cocky students whose very presence was enough to stir black coils of rage inside me. Potter was the worst, but tragically he was too far-gone by the time I found his body to be a candidate for the living death procedure. It's complex, you know, to keep a body in suspended animation for any length of time. Slowing down the metabolism enough to make waste a thing of the past, but leaving the mind ever active. You don't need to feed them, don't need to look after them. They breathe only once a day. They receive a nutrient solution once a week, if I remember to give it to them. Lubrication for the eyes is once a month. I learned that the hard way with Agnes Burntreacle. It should have occurred to me to check the eyes - they don't blink more than a few times a day now, and when the eyes desiccate, they decay. She was blind as a bat in two months. Have you ever tried to perform Legilimens on the blind? If I couldn't hear her thoughts; she was useless to me. I invited the upper echelon round and had a bonfire that used Agnes for kindling.

It was a very powerful lesson to me; I missed out on hearing her anguished cries because I hadn't properly thought through the ramifications of my new spell. Thus lubrication once a month, and their eyes remain the portals to their souls. And I can continue to look into their minds and hear the evidence of their torment. I'll never get back the countless hours I wasted in that drafty classroom, but when I peer into Regina Mudbine's eyes after Bellatrix has gotten her pleasure off her, I am convinced that she is, in some small way, atoning for the many times she scorched my cauldrons. She was so delicate and dainty back then when she was a schoolgirl. She's grown now, in her thirties at least, but she still whimpers like a child when Bella's done with her. Incoherent, keening, weeping, and yet totally silent to the outside world. The only one who hears them is I, and only when I choose to listen. It is a wonderful arrangement.

Some of them used words at first. When I peered into their minds, they'd cry out, "Help me!" Some would beg, "Please!" Not for long, though. They seem to lose the ability to string coherent thoughts together within about a week. Sooner, if Lucius visits them. He hasn't visited my latest prize though, and I don't think I'll let him. She is...different. Most of my acquisitions were easy enough to come by; a stunning spell on their doorstep and a quick apparition were all it had taken to bring them back to my home to begin the procedure. But I did have to search them out. However, Hermione Granger came to me.

Causes. She'd always been taking them up as a child, so it should have been no surprise that she was still trying to save the world once she'd grown into herself. And she had. Grown that is. I will admit it. She was lovely when she approached me that night in the Crop & Thistle. Sat down at my table like it was the most natural thing in the world. She even brought me a pint. Of course, she'd been wearing a glamour at the time – it was far too dangerous for her to be seen in public – but I've developed a sort of immunity to them. I can always see right through, right down to the spotty skin and the grainy flesh. I don't remember quite when I discovered the ability, but it was after the war. After that damned snakebite. Venom is a tricky thing. It never quite leaves the bloodstream. To this day, I'm still a bit surprised that he was able to revive me. Or that he bothered. I suppose just because he needed me dead didn't mean he wanted me dead. But I'm getting away from myself. The point is, I knew it was her the second she sat down. And she knew I knew. But the pub patrons sloshing noisily around us were none the wiser.

She set the pint down in front of me and smiled. The smile under her smile was much more fetching than the red lips she'd chosen for her disguise. I still didn't trust her.

"You looked like you could use some company."

I blinked at her and sniffed the pint. I can detect spell residue now, too. Almost worth the scars, that one. It smelled clean.

"You must be joking."

"I have a room not far from here."

I snorted into my pint.

"I don't for a second believe your existence is so miserable that you're turning tricks in a pub. And if your lot in life had become so wretched you still wouldn't be recruiting me as clientele."

"Please come with me."

"Why?"

"I need your help."

I drank some more and considered her request. The best of the resistance were a motley crew, and nothing I couldn't handle if they decided to show up. I didn't have any plans that would be inconvenienced. No potions needing tending. No irons in the fire. I had nothing to lose. She, on the other hand….

I rose, took a firm grip on her wrist, and led her from the pub. She followed, docile as a lamb. Like she could trust me. In a few moments, we were ensconced in her room. It was shabby but tidy. More importantly, it was out of the way, nondescript, and well-warded. We had privacy.

There was a dearth of furniture. I leaned awkwardly against the closed door. She perched on her bed. And then she did a strange thing indeed. She patted the bed next to her, encouraging me to sit. My knee bumped hers as I sat.

"What's this all about, Miss Granger?"

She looked at me with quiet intensity.

"Come back to us."

"Back, Miss Granger?"

"You're not a stupid man. You know the resistance took heavy casualties in the battle. And we've lost several others this last year. We're stripped. But we're committed. And if we've got you on the inside, we will triumph."

"And you honestly believe I'd ever take up that mantle again?

"I know you, Severus Snape. You used to think what we were fighting for was right."

"You know nothing."

"I understand why you sided with the victors. I really, truly do. But you have it in you to be a good man. And we need you. Now, more than ever."

She leaned forward and pressed her hand over my heart. And then her fingers slid up to caress the jagged flesh of my neck. Her fingertips grew warm against my flesh, and there was a gentle tingling as a small section of my skin knit cleanly beneath her touch. I had forgotten what it felt like to be healed. Not just pieced back together, life violently breathed back into dead, desecrated flesh. Healed. It was far more intimacy than I was used to. I removed her hand from my person.

"Do you think you can earn my loyalty with a parlour trick?"

"I can help you."

"My scars and I get on just fine, Miss Granger."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

I leaned in too close to her, violating her personal space. "Just what do you have to offer me?"

She pushed me back gently but firmly.

"You're better than that."

"You think so, do you?" I pressed back against her, feeling the tension in her forearm.

"I do."

"More fool you, then."

It still strikes me as odd that she let me take her so easily. I jabbed my wand into her ribs and hissed, "Stupefy!" into her ear. She crumpled against me. I broke her wand in two and set it aflame. Then I took down her wards. Tedious work, that. And the little minx had booby-trapped them. I ended up with stinging nettles in my hair, burns on my fingertips, all sorts of nasty business. But I got through them. She was still unconscious when we apparated to my home. She started to revive when we landed on the grounds, a good 100 yards from the actual house. I prefer to keep a safe perimeter around my abode – old habits die hard. She stirred in my arms as I carried her, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. I laid her out on the tiles of the foyer as I closed the heavy door behind us and warded it shut. When I turned around she was gone.

She didn't get far. She was running as fast as her legs would carry her, but it was dark, and the floor was damp. She skidded around a corner and collided with Estelle Aberhardt. Estelle's job, when she wasn't serving as fleshy entertainment for my guests, was to be a very novel footstool. Hermione caught her foot under Estelle's ribcage and took a spectacular fall. Estelle flipped over on her side, her right arm jutting out from her body at a hideously deformed angle. Her forearm was a mangled mess of a compound fracture. The tibia had broken free of the flesh. Hermione was scrambling to her feet, but I managed to get my hand in her hair and yank her back down to the ground.

"Look what you've done, you careless girl."

Her eyes were wide with terror but she managed to keep control of herself. I tipped Estelle back upright, though she tottered terribly on her ruined limb. I pulled Hermione's face in close, her cheek soft against mine, and I whispered "Legilimens."

I do not know if she heard the screams. I did. I drank them in. But Hermione wasn't stupid. Annoying, frustrating, idealistic to a fault, but never stupid. She knew exactly what transpired as I gazed into Estelle's glazed eyes. And she also knew in that moment what was to become of her. I shuddered, and so did she. Whether it was in fear or revulsion or equal measures of both, I could not say.

We tussled a bit more, on the tiles. She fought well, but in the end I overpowered her – she was half my size and robbed of her wand. A firm pressure on the carotid artery and I watched her consciousness fade. I took her to my laboratory and laid her carefully on the table I had constructed for the living death procedure. I tipped the vial of the first potion to her lips and massaged it down her white throat. A few moments later it had begun. Her eyes snapped open and her body went rigid. This part is tricky. The first potion is designed to remove the life essence from the body. I watched her lungs deflate for the last time. I watched her heart stop. I watched her die.

The second potion, the antidote if you will, must be administered at the proper moment or the death will be complete. The antidote revives the brain and puts a stopper in death. It's a delicate push and pull, like a dance, like a duel.

After the potions had done their work, she needed to be calibrated. The breath is the most important – imagine holding your breath for almost 24 hours. The tension is excruciating. When they finally do breathe, it's a loud, sucking gasp – not a pleasant sound. All my statues breathe at the same time. It wouldn't do to have them gasping in the halls at all hours. Instead they all breathe in unison at midnight. A fresh start to a new day.

Next is the heart. One beat a week, pumping sluggish blood through chilly veins. There's no need to synchronize the heartbeats. They aren't noisy enough to be a nuisance. I left Miss Granger's heart to its own devices.

The other procedures, while tedious, are not nearly as complex. Tinkering with the metabolism and hormones. Temperature control, hydration, making sure they are free from communicable diseases. When I'd completed my work, I stood at the foot of the table and gazed down on Hermione Granger. She was utterly at my mercy. A slave. Less than a slave. A prisoner in her own body. I could do anything to her.

I felt strangely empty. But I soldiered on. This was always my favorite part. The first look inside them. Their first words. Disoriented, alone, afraid, and I the only one who they could talk to.

I slid her to one side of the table and sat on the edge. I leaned over her, brought my face very close to hers. My elbows resting on either side of her small frame, I cupped her face between my hands. And I looked into her eyes.

At first, silence. That alone was unusual. No screams, no begging. Just an unnerving hush. For a sickening moment, I was afraid something had gone wrong. That she was, in fact, truly dead. But she was still warm to the touch, her cheek gently flushed. I tried again. In her mind I whispered: "Hermione?"

The quiet composure of her voice caught me off guard. "You don't want to do this, Severus."

"Still so sure of your judgment, Miss Granger? I would think you'd have changed your mind about me in light of recent events."

"Miss Granger now? What happened to Hermione? It was Hermione a moment ago."

I was taken aback by her cheek. She was in no position to be doing anything other than begging for my mercy. She startled me by projecting her voice into my mind.

"You'll either show mercy, or you won't. Begging isn't going to get me anywhere with you."

I hadn't spoken aloud. She shouldn't be able to perform Legilimens on me at all, never mind her current state. But there she was, in my head, searching. I slammed her consciousness roughly from my mind. She continued to lie there on the table, dead to the world.

I left her there and poured myself a Fire Whiskey. She wouldn't be that calm and composed in the morning. All I needed was a little time. And perhaps a spark of creativity. But she wasn't special. Soon, she'd be just as mad as the others. And her screams would be especially sweet because they'd be harder won. I assured myself of all these things while I decided exactly what was to be done with her.

From the beginning, from the very moment where she reached out to me and touched my thoughts, I decided she wouldn't be displayed with the other knickknacks. She presented a unique sort of challenge. Not a danger, far too weak and unskilled to ever be a danger. But still...I needed someplace private to keep her. I mulled it over. My bedroom? Preposterous. I didn't want anyone in my private chambers, least of all that insufferable know-it-all. My closet? Better, but still not ideal. And then it dawned on me. The perfect solution. Not only ideal for its location, but also for the purpose of driving Miss Granger mad.

I slung her stiff, cooling body over my shoulder and carried her to my study. I set her gingerly down upon her feet, taking care that her knees did not buckle. Her arms I placed straight down by her sides. She stood there like a mannequin, giving no sign that her mind was alive and well. I stepped back to admire my work. Hermione Granger stood facing one of the most impressive collections of magical texts in the wizarding world. Several volumes were the only known copies in existence - spoils I claimed in lieu of the money, flesh, and political powers requested by the more short-sighted of the Dark Lord's acolytes. A wealth of knowledge, an arm's length away - if only she could reach out and grab it. I thought it fitting indeed.

The clock struck midnight and she gasped for breath - the terrible, sucking wail of a drowning woman. Then silence once more. I went off to bed, locking the door behind me.

In the morning, I awoke feeling refreshed. To be perfectly honest, I had entirely forgotten about Hermione until I came down the stairs and spied Estelle's crumbled figure. She'd have to be disposed of. There was no healing them in their condition. Spells wouldn't work. Despite their active minds, their bodies were too close to the grave for magic to do any good. Metabolisms far too sluggish to utilize potions. You could try setting the bone and bandaging it up, but it was really only a matter of time before the maggots would set in. And then the smell. Of course, if you reversed the living death procedure they could be healed. But there was always the chance that they'd escape. It was hardly worth the effort. No, I'd have to get rid of her. I pushed her to one side of the room; Fenrir would enjoy dismantling her later. I decided to take tea in my study.

Coincidences happen every day - multitudes of them. I've never been one to be unsettled easily by them. But I will admit that I found it a trifle disconcerting when I noticed an item out of place in my study. Miss Granger was still there, of course, standing stock still in front of the shelves. But now there was an empty slot. My copy of _Dark Potions and Elixirs_ lay at her feet. Merely a coincidence. The house settling, a rat scurrying behind the bookcase. There were many mundane explanations. I picked it up and returned it to its proper place. She didn't move a muscle. Of course she didn't. I decided to take tea in the parlor instead.

Once away, I forgot about her again. I toiled in my laboratory on some obscure potion that the Dark Lord thought (wrongly so) might be helpful in restoring his former good looks. I could have told him it wouldn't work, but I found it best not to argue with him. Especially when I was right. Time got away from me - it never seems to behave like it should any more. Agonizingly slow or ridiculously fast but never linear. The clock striking midnight broke my concentration. A deep, sucking, collective gasp for air shattered the silence as my menagerie breathed in unison. I was performing a stasis spell on the misguided, time-wasting potion when the hair on the back of my neck rose. I could have sworn I'd heard it, even though it was impossible. An echo of breath. I stalked down the hall to my study and peered in. She was standing there just as she should, frizzy hair and all. I locked her in again.

I do not remember what I was doing the next night at midnight. I may have been asleep or drunk or too lost in thought to notice their breathing. But if something had gone wrong, I surely would have noticed. The night before had been a fluke, the settling of the house, a particularly persistent gust of wind.

By her third day in the study, I figured enough time had elapsed to break her spirit. Voldemort had been very displeased with his unsuccessful potion and had made his displeasure known with a few well-timed bouts of the Cruciatus. I felt like hearing someone else scream for a change. I decided to look in on Hermione. She was still surprisingly warm when I touched her cheek. Perhaps the study was warmer than the rest of the house. I looked into her opaque eyes and whispered, "Legilimens."

Once again, I was greeted by silence. I camped out in her mind and waited. I was determined not to speak first. After a few moments, her voice rang out clearly in my mind.

"Does it hurt much?"

I was perplexed by her query. "Does what hurt?"

"Your neck. Where you were bitten."

"You should be more worried for yourself, you foolish girl. I've half a mind to show you how it feels."

"You're not right, Severus. You have to listen to me. You think the venom has given you special gifts, but you're wrong. It's made you mad and trapped you in your own mind. I can help you."

I snorted. "Perhaps as a doorstop. Or a coat rack. Maybe even as a replacement for the footstool you destroyed. But there's very little you can do for me in your current condition. You could be my music box - scream pretty little tunes to me as I snap your fingers."

"Would that make you feel better, do you think?"

"Let's find out."

I felt the distinct, dry leaf snap of her finger cracking. She whimpered, but she didn't scream. I left her for the evening. That night, I had trouble sleeping. When I did finally drift off, there were imageless dreams, sound paintings of crackling, slithering, rending flesh.

By the time the fortnight was out, I realized I had fallen into the habit of spending my evenings with her. I sat by the fire, drank, watched the back of her head. I read aloud and wondered if she could hear me. When I entered her mind that night, I spoke first.

"Does your finger hurt?"

"Yes."

"You could lie to me, you know."

"No point. You'd know if I was lying. Besides, if I lie to you about the trivial, you won't believe me when it's important."

"Trying to save me again, Miss Granger?" I mocked her. "Turning me into one of your causes?"

"No. But you are so important to our cause. You have no idea how important you are."

"Empty flattery will get you nowhere, my dear."

"Not empty, Severus. You just can't understand it now, that's all."

"And now you're insulting my intelligence. Besides, you can't really claim to be a part of their cause anymore, Hermione. Inanimate objects can't take sides."

She sighed then, and sounded so weary that I almost pitied her. When she spoke, she sounded sad but resolute.

"I looked up to you, you know. Respected you. I was in awe of you. I'm so sorry, Severus. I had hoped to convince you to help us of your own accord. I want you to know that whatever happens, I am sorry."

And there it was. Madness. Not the screaming, keening, wailing madness of the others. Her own unique flavor of insanity. Apologizing to me from deep inside the empty shell of her dying body. It was not as fulfilling as I hoped it would be. That was how I had left her there last week. Time to check back in.

Pushing aside the door, the first thing I notice is a dark spot of crimson on her left wrist. Moving closer, I see the deep gouge in her flesh. I feel dread welling up inside me. What's this? Have rats been gnawing at her? Some type of insect? It seems to defy explanation. My throat constricts as I glance at her right hand. The fingertips are coated with blood.

She's not in any immediate danger - it would take weeks for her to bleed to death at this rate. But it's still disconcerting. She shouldn't be able to move, let alone inflict this sort of damage on herself. I've only left her alone for a few days, perhaps three or four. Days come and go and blur together now, but it can't have been long.

I conjure a thick bone needle and a length of red ribbon. Stitch up her wrist and tie it with a pretty bow. A corset to hold her ravaged flesh together. The ribbon grows darker red where her blood soaks in.

I look inside her. She speaks first:

"That won't staunch the bleeding indefinitely."

"Long enough, my dear. It should hold you throughout my lifetime. And seeing as I have no progeny to will you to..."

"You can't hold me like this forever, you know. It won't be long now."

I laugh. "Bold words, from a doorstop."

My laughter is cut short as her lips part and she gasps for breath. I stumble back from her. It's not even ten. She shouldn't be breathing now. It's far too early. The ribbon holding her wrist together has grown dark with her blood. It lies limply against her fingers.

I hurry from the room and lock the door behind me. I'm half-convinced it's a bad dream, a spot of indigestion, a momentary lapse of my senses. I pace the hallway, trying to make sense of what I've seen. Gradually, I become aware of a hissing sibilance coming from the study. I lay my ear to the door and listen. The noise seems to go on forever, a word gradually taking shape. My name. She is calling my name.

I have no idea what's going on. No clue how's she's managed to override, however sluggishly, my power over her. But it cannot be allowed to continue. I steel myself and fling open the door. She is no longer facing the bookshelf. Slowly, as if underwater, she shambles across the room. She blinks. I level my wand at her and shout: "Avada Kedavra." I expect to see the flash of green light. I expect her to crumble to the floor in a lifeless heap. She defies my expectations. The spell has no effect on her. In the back of my mind, a calm, rational voice is explaining to me that her body is already as good as dead and so cannot be killed again. But I don't listen. I curse her again. And again. But she keeps coming towards me. I stumble backwards, trip, lose my footing. Her pace picks up, and in a moment, she is standing above me. The light has returned to her eyes. She looks like she did in the Crop & Thistle. Lovely. Terrifying. She reaches down and takes my hand. And she says:

"I'm sorry, Severus."

And even without her wand, she has me stupefied.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When I wake, I feel as though I'm underwater. I'm aching for air, dying to breathe, and yet my lungs just won't respond. There are restraints tied to my wrists and ankles. I feel like screaming. But then I feel a soft, warm hand gently stroking the side of my face, and I wonder if perhaps I've gone mad.

"In a way, you have." She hears my thoughts even though I am unable to give voice to them. "But it's really much more complex than that, Severus."

She continues to stroke my neck, her fingertips massaging the scar tissue away, leaving smooth skin in their wake. I try to reach out to her mind.

"Hermione?"

"It's the magical venom, you see. There's so much we don't understand about it."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's the reason you're like this, Severus. Nagini. She was a part of him. And now he's a part of you."

"Who?"

"Voldemort, of course. Nagini's venom aided in the transference. Like...like a carrier oil in a potion. Haven't you ever wondered why he brought you back, Severus?"

Her words sink in, and I don't find I have the heart to answer her.

"You're a Horcrux now. His last Horcrux. Do you see now why you're so very important to us?"

I'd nod if I could.

"All those people you trapped like this...I don't think you would have done this without him inside you. Perhaps you would. But I like to think you wouldn't have."

Her fingers leave my neck, and I find myself missing her touch. But the flesh is healed now. Good as new. I feel tears threatening to spring to my eyes, but the ducts are dry. The unrelieved pressure is painful.

"I don't know."

She squeezes my hand, but I can't squeeze back.

"I also like to think that you would have submitted to this willingly."

My throat constricts. "You don't want to do this."

"You're right. I don't want to. But it has to be done, Severus."

She leans in very close, she lays her hand on my heart, and she whispers: "Avada Kedavra."

Something inside me bursts. Then, blackness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I awake with a gasp. My body is wracked with pain as air forces my lungs open. I have no idea where I am. In a bed. In a shabby but tidy flat. I try to rise, but a hand presses me back into the pillows. A feminine hand.

"Rest."

Her voice sends a shudder of relief through my body.

"I'm alive." Such an inane statement, but it serves to reinforce the fact that my voice is my own again.

"Yes." Equally inane, but welcome none the less.

"The Dark Lord?"

"Dead. For good this time, I hope."

Hermione comes into my field of vision, and I wince when I see the jagged scar on her wrist.

"I am sorry, Hermione."

She nods.

For the first time in months, I am able to think clearly. Only one voice in my head, and it is my own. It is still hard to listen to because it asks a very difficult question. How is it that a mere child was able to carry Voldemort's soul for his lifetime and still manage to retain his humanity, while in a matter of months I became a monster?

She senses my thoughts and strokes my forehead.

"Don't think on it now, Severus, rest."

I still her hand with mine.

"You said that you wanted to help me."

"I did."

"Do you think you can?"

She looks at me for a long time before answering. Her eyes take on a thousand-yard stare as she no doubt relives her time in my home, at my cruel mercy, surrounded by the souls I'd driven past madness.

And she says: "I'd like to try."

The End.


End file.
